


A Further Spiral of What the Fuck

by kiiwritesthings



Series: Punk AU [7]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Bro Strider - Freeform, Panic Attack, Punk AU, anxiety attack, dave gets violent(tm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 09:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14829425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiwritesthings/pseuds/kiiwritesthings
Summary: A blast from the past isn't always appreciated- especially if it's from your shitty, assholish brother that you've left long, long ago. It's a good thing Dave has a new brother, even if they share the same anime taste in glasses.





	A Further Spiral of What the Fuck

It is not until Dirk hears the smack and resounding crack of something being broken that his ears twitch and his head swivels to spy on whatever sudden physical confrontation is going on between crewmates; occasionally some sort of fight pops up that always gets a few rounds before someone can cut in and kill it off and it always serves as a good show. Granted, he shouldn’t take fighting so lightly when it concerns any part of the band, but what’s he supposed to do? Solve interpersonal issues in a matter of minutes and have everything work out? That isn’t anything he’s equipped for.

The scene plays out once he spots it: someone in a stance similar to a boxer’s, fist flying, clearly unprepared for a fight given the hideously red jeans that he’s wearing. The other person seems even less prepared, though they make it up in the complete enthusiasm that comes with a heavy swing. Red Pants grabs the fist easily and it’s a thing of practiced elegance that he pulls and sends the guy sprawling on the ground. The elegance is immediately abandoned in favor of flipping the guy over and grabbing his collar so he can absolutely lay the guy out.

It’s only in that swing that Dirk’s mind connects that hey, his brother was wearing jeans like those because Dirk’s got a matching orange pair on, and that hey, _why is Dave trying to fuck some guy up?_

He’s out of his seat, phone left on the counter of the vanity, and across the room in seconds. Pure panic propels him- Dave hasn’t been angry enough to start a fight with someone that wasn’t him due to shitty living habits, and even those are just heated moments and days and nothing too entirely intense. (The only time Dirk’s seen Dave like this was when he was 16 and Dave was 15. He had just moved out of Bro’s care and into Dallas’. Someone said something in the hallway- kid named Martin or whatever that he had never talked to before- and Dirk didn’t even process what happened before his nose was bleeding and he was whining about pain.

Dave had been absolutely livid and suspended for three days and the principal told Dirk that _inflammatory language is better ignored than responded to violently._ The whole affair took two hours and twenty-three minutes and Dirk drove slightly illegally with his already-chipped learner’s permit so they could eat dairy-free fro-yo at the local vegan place. Not that they were vegan, but the fact they could make frozen desserts taste like cucumber delighted Dave.)

Dave’s punch, thankfully, doesn’t connect. Dirk hauls him off, arms under his, lifting him straight off the ground. His legs pedal fruitlessly in air and Dirk almost drops him. He can’t see what’s important about the person on the floor- brown hair and not-pale, not-tan skin don’t lend any ideas of who this person is. He doesn’t seem particularly _anything,_ which makes it ever more confusing why Dave would get so fired up over a fan.

Probably a fan. Dirk doesn’t remember seeing this guy slinking anywhere to fix lights or roll things on stage, but he doesn’t have a VIP pass, either, making this just a further spiral of What The Fuck that doesn’t seem like it’ll be answered soon.

Dave’s breathing is labored. He lurches against Dirk to- go another round? flee the scene?- but neither of those ideas sound any good. It’s uncomfortable for the both of them, but Dirk ambles off with his brother before either of the Lalondes can swoop in and pick at his skeleton while he’s still this off.

Usually, he makes a point to know several things about the venue they’re staying at: his room, Dave’s room, the fastest way to the stage, and the bathroom. The whole layout gets memorized no matter what, but it makes it much more convenient to know where Dave’s room is so he can shove open the door and toss Dave on the shitty couch inside- just a two-seater, which is questionable for how often he bullies people to hang out with him before shows. Thankfully, it is empty and relatively clean and Dirk doesn't have to muddle through God knows what being on the ground.

_What the fuck_ lays on the tip of his tongue- not that interrogating will do much, since now it’s the beginnings of a scandal the Lalondes will have to flatten out and twist into something positive. They’ll no doubt do _something,_ somehow, because they’re good at their jobs. It won’t work for other reasons, too, because now that he’s been removed from the situation, it’s much more obvious that Dave’s breathing has picked up to a degree the A/C would envy, in and out like _that_. His hands are shaking; there’s some blood on his left knuckles and he can’t seem to decide whether to stare at that or pull out his hair with his other hand. No doubt, were his shades off, his pupils would be blown wide and searching for a way out from whatever was going on.

A panic attack. Surprising, but not, because even not related by blood they have a stupid amount of similarities and anxiety had always been one.

Dave hardly responds when Dirk grabs his face, palms on either cheek to tilt his head up- there’s the slightest noise of complaint but he doesn’t quite get his hands up all the way to hold Dirk’s wrists and force them off. The room’s too quiet and simultaneously too loud- there’s the sound of people bickering loud enough from somewhere else that it reaches them with incomprehensible words and Dave’s labored breath fills the room, but that’s it. There’s nothing else to focus on or distract with until Dirk spies the metronome Dave keeps around and goes to retrieve it.

(There are actually 4 metronomes hidden around the room, which is something he can’t really explain nor does he want to truly understand, especially because they’re all slightly different styles and always seem to tick just milliseconds out of time with each other when set off by anyone besides their keeper. At least they’re both packrats, too.)

It keeps a constant _tick-tick-tick_ as soon as the pendulum is tilted sideways and Dirk goes back towards Dave. He grabs his face again, because touch is grounding for at least one of them and it keeps Dave from pulling strands of hair out of his head with suspended hands.

“How many,” he demands.

Dave’s eyelashes flutter in complete confusion and he lets out a strangled, “What?”

“How many seconds?” It’s a gamble, but it also isn’t- the metronome is too loud in the otherwise quiet room to ignore. It keeps better time than Dirk does- than anyone does, really- and effortlessly is small and distracting. Dave screws his eyes shut and makes some sort of decision to wretch Dirk’s hand away and try to get up.

“Who gives a shit, it’s a fuckin’ ticker, I’m- I’m _fine,_ I just need to-” He protests when Dirk’s hands meet his shoulders and sit him back down again, warm and immovable. “Dirk, let me _go-_ ”

“How many seconds?”

“Twenty-three! Fuck off-”

He’s still off-beat with his breathing. Releasing him into the wild that is the venue seems like a bad idea stacked on top of another with a third doing a pretty neat acrobatics trick on top. Dirk squishes his cheeks again, childishly plain in the maneuver, and Dave shuts up for another few moments. His hands curl around Dirk’s wrists again and stay there, warm and sweaty and a little bit gross. Neither of them move except Dave’s anxiously bouncing leg.

“How many seconds?”

“Seventeen.”

Dave zones out just a little. His grip remains the middle ground between tight and almost falling off, but it’s easy to hear the little hitches as his lungs are forced back into a regulation because they aren’t focused on anymore. The metronome ticks. Dirk times it with how quickly Dave’s gaze flicks side to side. He asks, occasionally, and Dave gives him a number that Dirk assumes is right- he’s only counting the moments until Dave seems in control of his facilities again, pupils back to a normal size and breathing back to even inhales and exhales.

It’s still ten minutes after that that he breaches, with a tone much more gentle than he expects to produce, “What was that?”

Dave, to his credit, still tries to hold onto the fact he’s fine with stubbornness like an ingrown toenail. He reaches out to grab at the hem of Dirk’s stylishly fucked up tank top, and only offers anything near a coherent answer once Dirk sits down next to him and allows him to firmly attach himself in a hug. It lights each and every one of Dirk’s nerves on fire and he awkwardly places his arms around Dave with absolutely no clue where they should go.

“It was Bro,” he says, after getting comfy. It’s a hesitant start before he just starts spiraling on, picking up speed. Dirk’s forced to imagine the Nothing in Particular Guy as anything close to Dave, but that idea is quickly decimated. “I mean- it wasn’t Bro, he’d never show up because fuck knows what would go on and I mean then I’d actually figure out his first name via the tickets- unless it’s actually just _Bro Strider_ which is such a rabbithole to delve into, but it was one of his shitty old buddies that probably has a name but also is probably dickdeep into the Anonymous thing- what a crowd, right?- and- fuck, all I felt was cool glass pressed to my ear and I heard a voice and I totally fucking _flipped._ There was a sweet quadruple dive off the deep end followed by a smooth triple Lutz- fuck, wait, that isn’t the same sport. We’ve officially breached the line between Olympic events, folks- strap knives to your feet and go hog fuckin’ wild on whatever course of your choosing. It’s a free world. Do what you want.”

Dave’s fingers twist in the back of Dirk’s tank top- he’s not sobbing but Dirk can feel the way his jaw is clenched against his shoulder. Dirk ventures a few strokes of his hand against his back. Dave exhales. “Does he think that kind of shit is funny? Fucker. I bet he _was_ in the crowd and thought he’d be able to pull some shit on me.”

Dirk does not mention that some shit was indeed just pulled on him. Dave doesn’t talk about Bro much- neither of them generally talk about things like _that,_ things that are definitely not transient and are actually quite life-effecting. Dave’s never offered information; Dirk has never asked.

He hums, lightly, and considers. “We could probably sue him.”

“Sue? What?”

Dirk feels slightly- proud? when Dave seems honestly baffled by the proposition. “There’s gotta be a law or some shit about deliberately provoking a person to cause them panic or whatever the fuck the law details about it. You could get that Pyrope girl you keep raving about to start the case.” He hums again, lowly. “Restraining order?”

Dave makes a noise that’s a hiccup crossed with a sound that Dirk is pretty sure humans aren’t supposed to make. The heels of his hands dig into Dirk’s spine in some sort of pseudo-massage and he holds his brother tighter for several moments. It feels utterly ridiculous, given that they’re both adults and reasonably too old for this shit, but that idea seems better unmentioned and Dirk actually, for a moment, feels comfortable. Dave doesn’t want to let go. It seems entirely fine.

“Don’t offer actual solutions, jackass. You’re the worst.”

Dirk scoffs. “Says the fucking _koala._ ”

“Shhh, my shitty eucalyptus, _shhh_. Man, I want to pet a koala. I bet those guys are soft as all get-out. Their ears are so big.”

“Can’t you stay on topic for like two seconds?”

The metronome keeps ticking; Dave continues sniffling but not quite crying; Dirk rubs his back while they’re still alone and it is okay, though he counts down the seconds until a pink and purple girl slams through the door to lambast them for what just went down.

Dave is fine and that seems good enough.


End file.
